A shoot we did with wee Rachel Sermanni in Falmouth a few weeks back. We loved the simplicity of this arrangement which let the natural beauty of her voice shine through.
Thankyou Baylis Gray
Henry Tudor House
Mo has arrived.
We’ve spent a day in English countryside. In a lovely house.
Jimi’s childhood friend, Sarah. Her house.
Sarah thinks the wind is sexy. An auctioneer and horse enthusiast.
Her husband, Richard.
Two small girls, Gabriella; wearing a red flamenco dress, sparkly shoes. Francesca who currently sports an eyeshadow monobrow.
Mo falls asleep. In the attic space above the garage. Jimi, Jen and Mike take for the swipoo.
I head to the fields and forest with two well behaved dogs.
After an hour of walk, sit under a tree to be Ann of Green Gables, write in my book. Two chinooks circle above, tarnish the image.
That was sunday.
Shrewsbury. An old, affluent little town. Hills. Cobbled alleyways.
Henry Tudor house, our venue, nestled behind the Lion Hotel. Our home for the night. All creaking and whining with the wind and old wood.
Mike and Jimi battle the many narrow staircases of the venue. Carrying the equivalent of a piano (Jimi’s sound desk) up two steep flights.
We wander, sleep and wash. Charity shops a plenty. Two hifi shops. Vintage shops with things that one might never find use for. Perhaps a crystal decanter, for the drinks cabinet I don’t have.
Greet Graham. Graham was challenged to get me here for a gig. He accepted the challenge and endured a number of labyrinthesque tests. How grateful I am.
Our backstage room is the room where Henry Tudor himself was said to dine. The decor remains rich and velvet coated. Dim lit and dark wood. Waxy fruit in bowl. Waxy faces peer from stately portraits. Long white wax chimneys from the candelabrum. Silver cutlery chink in the hungry silence of dinner served.
An attentive and appreciative bunch sit quiet and listen in the dark of our intimate gig space. The songs are fresh. Farmers market scented.
We return for wine by the fireplace. Retreat. Sleep to the howl and rattle of thin old windows being blown through.
Dancing, by Mo Kenney, ft. Rachel Sermanni
Nestling into tour. To begin with a date in Kelvingrove Gallery in Glasgow is an exceptional and ethereal start.
To follow that with The Met in Bury, which has become a home to me, makes the start ever better.
Having experienced interesting turbulences this past week or so. Public leakage into my own personal (only due to my own decisions, of course). It is nice to be with the wolves. Jimi, Jen and, temporarily, Mike guest. This is a wonderful family. They allow me to see light through the thinnest and darkest of filters.
We meet Craig and Nathan and they lead us into the familiar little space.
Nathan has excelled in rider. I now have a real wadding root of ginger. Apples. Bananas. Oranges that may take some time to soften. Wine. Even a carton of coconut water.
Jimi the wizard has perhaps been altering the requirements…I’m not complaining.
Jimi also has his own sound desk. The desk that we first encountered in Groningen and marks the birth of the wizard. That was the night we did a rap for an encore…
Jen teaches me a tune. Fiddles weedle.
The room; lights turned out and people fill it. The majority of the people will be familiar. Faces. Hovering in the candle light.
Jen and I play two sets. We speak of the new set up of the amp.
We decide that a raffle is in order.
Also, a piercing and tattoo parlour at the entrance of the gig. This way we can embrace the orange amp a little more.
At the merch stall I say hello to all who’ve been to hear before, and a few newbies. Holly, Shay, Olivia, Michelle, the lovely man who does gigs at the Castle Hotel in Manchester’s northern quarter…
Three men who saw me play with Pete Roe at The Hop in Wakefield say that perhaps the first gig will never be beaten. I appreciate their honesty.
Rachel Sermanni | Bones (Celtic Connections session)
red curtains, small stage, strange lights. two guitars guard the sides. a sentinel-mandolin sits forlorn at the back. the piano looks too lonely. rachel appears, shoeless. she is like every little happenstance. i’m assured she has something to do with the pull of the moon.
jen follows, quiet. her…